’ Lucilla sat up. He filled her glass with champagne. She was wan and white. Rows of roasted duck, brilliantly varnished; luscious vegetables, which she had been warned against; baskets of melon seed and water-chestnuts; men working in teak and blackwood; fan makers and jade cutters; eggs preserved in what appeared to her as petrified muck; bird's nests and shark fins. “Of course it is okay!” Cathy’s voice rose in volume and in pitch. Won’t you let me—can’t I be of any assistance?” He was obviously in earnest. He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers.
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